


Last Dance

by djdaddybek (llyn)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Bad Boy Otabek Altin, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kitten, M/M, Party, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/djdaddybek
Summary: After Otabek goes out for the season with a broken leg, Yuri flies to Almaty to try to save his plummeting mood





	Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JujuRotfuchs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JujuRotfuchs/gifts).



> written for the Super Secret Santa Gift Exchange--thank you to the organizers!
> 
> My secret Santa was the beautiful, talented [yours-julie](http://yours-julie.tumblr.com)! I was so excited to write for her because I love her work, and she has always been so supportive of me. Merry Xmas Julie!!

Otabek’s place is trashed. Ever since he got injured his snaps are full of dark philosophy, which he shares while wearing dark sunglasses early in the morning while Yuri’s sleeping, party noise loud in the background: music (dark), squealing laughter, the heavy crash of something loud hitting the floor. “Don’t mind that,  _ kotik _ ,” Otabek says, unflinching, in his latest snap, then he takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyes burning hot as the cherry over the rims of his shades. “That’s just the sound of my soul.” 

Yuri replays the snap over his cereal. He jumps, both times, at the sound of the crash. Then he buys a plane ticket to Almaty, his knee bouncing, nervous, under the table.

He doesn’t tell anyone. Not Yakov or Lilia, not Mila, not Viktor, not even Otabek. They’ll just say no. But this isn’t like the last time he ran away to Kazakhstan. This mission is selfless. Otabek needs him. 

He chews his lip through the flight, one of Beka’s feverish mixes raucous in his headphones. He knows the party at Otabek’s doesn’t end, so he dressed for it. That might have been a mistake--he catches the attention of the businessman seated beside him. Eyes sliding, handing creeping, the whole of him oozes into Yuri’s space. Yuri kicks his foot with his heavy Doc Marten and glares daggers, shrugging his shoulders up like a cobra spreading its hood. 

Everyone wants him. He’s known that since he was thirteen. But Otabek is the armor he wears, now, and he turns up the volume in his headphones. He wants this sad sack to hear Crass screaming. That’s the sound of Yuri’s soul. 

“Armor for you,” Otabek used to say, in his notes, before he got hurt. He sent Yuri his old spiked leather jacket--armor. Every new mix--armor. 7” records for the record player Yuri doesn’t have and books Yuri will never read and the boots on his feet-- _ Armor for you _ . He sleeps beneath the jacket, its weight like a heavy arm draped around his waist. He once sent Beka a snap of himself wrapped in it, shirtless, finger stuck in his mouth, and received back one word: “Don’t.” 

He’s sixteen, and everyone wants him but Otabek. He tries to pretend otherwise, but Yuri’s not so dumb he doesn’t see: Otabek doesn’t want him. He needs him. 

The landing is bumpy, the taxi ride worse. It’s dark when he reaches the warehouse, broken glass sparkling under his boots. Beka had said--last time--in those last moments alone, together, as Yuri’s taxi approached, raising a cloud of dust--that he liked it. “I like broken things,” he’d said, in that melted dark chocolate voice. “Do you understand, Yura?” 

No. He didn’t. He hadn’t understood a single thing that’d happened that weekend. He hadn’t understood being scolded and made to sleep on the couch, or the way Beka’s friends smirked at him and called him the Muse, and most of all he hadn't understood the way Beka had kissed his cheek just as the taxi crunched to a stop--kissed him fast but firm as if it were something he’d wanted to steal, thought of how best to steal, and then stolen at last. They call that premeditated. Yuri had put his hand up to his cheek too late. If he’d only turned his face and caught his lips, then, surely--

All weekend he was an unguarded store, but Otabek had taken just what he needed, nothing more. 

“Goodbye, kotik,” he’d said. He was a column of black with a field of dead weeds behind him, his leather collar turned up. He was all Yuri wanted in all the world, and he’d been sent home with a kiss on the cheek. Yuri trembled all the way to the airport, with his fists clenched in his lap. 

But now Otabek needs more from him. Yuri is sure of it. Otabek is in pain. This is a different kind of trip. He hadn’t packed the things that had mortified him to unpack, last time: the seals unbroken, the outfits unworn. He hardly packed anything at all, just some of Beka’s armor. 

This time the door of the warehouse is off its hinges, rattling behind the beat with each deep roll of bass as if purring in sympathy at the pain of some unseen beast. Yuri pushes it aside and steps into the shadows. He thinks, at first, that his timing is perfect. The ancient and wholly unreliable freight elevator comes to a clanking stop just as he starts down the hall. But then the gate lifts, spilling out a pair of boys. They  _ are _ boys. Even in the low light, Yuri can tell. Baby boys, Otabek would call them. What he would give for Otabek to call him that, too. They’re laughing. “It was so big, though!” one says. 

“You knew that,” the other says, breathless. “We both knew.” 

“It was like--” hysterical laughter, so that he has to lean against the wall for a moment, just to breathe, hiding his pretty face in his hands, “An elephant’s--stop laughing!” But he can’t stop laughing, either. 

Yuri presses himself against the wall like one of Lilia’s servants, eyes down. He watches their shoes--one pair of chunky black platforms, one pair of beat up chucks, with fishnets visible through the holes. They stumble by, holding onto each other, leaving a trail of glitter like fairies in flight. Yuri slips into the elevator, unnoticed, and pulls the gate down, lips twisted, fingers white on the handle of his luggage. 

Maybe they weren’t there for Beka. It’s a sweet-voiced, fleeting hope. They’re just his type. One digs in the back pocket of his tight black jeans for a cigarette. His wrists are fine-boned. His jeans are all ripped up, fishnet underneath. They’re trying so hard now not to laugh. They don’t act like they’ve been scolded and sent home, these little sluts. Yuri’s thankful when the elevator decides to jerk upwards, and they’re swept out of his sight. 

Then the sound pours down the elevator shaft, heavy, like a waterfall in a cave--echoing loud, rushing past, bouncing off the narrow walls. The elevator jerks to a stop. Then dips, once, as if uncertain. Yuri throws the gate open and steps up onto the floor before it can change its mind. 

His first thought is that he’ll never find him--it’s hot from so many people so close, everyone sweating under the black lights, everyone shedding clothes as they dance like a tangle of molting snakes. His next thought is--there he is. The crowd parts, for a moment. He’s leaning back against the far wall. The lights flash red, blue, and green. The green lingers, curious, licking at his jaw as he lights up a cigarette, his head down. Then the little laser goes skittering away across the dance floor shyly just as Otabek looks up. 

Otabek sees him. His cigarette burns forgotten in his hand, his friends laugh forgotten at his side, so that, when one passes him a joint he takes it absently in his other hand and holds it absently, too, one in each hand as if he were a statue with incense trailing smoke from its stone palms. He doesn’t take his eyes off Yuri. 

Then the crowd shifts with a happy shout at the drop of the beat. Yuri loses sight of him in the snake tangle, raising up on his tiptoes. The green laser sweeps past, but when it hits the spot where Otabek stood he’s gone.

Yuri whines high in his throat, surging forward to chase him. But he’s not even halfway through the crowd when a hand closes around his wrist. He turns, hopeful, but no. It’s one of Otabek’s friends, Suleiman, as seen on Instagram, he of the crossed tattooed arms, he of the friendly scowl, he, always at Otabek’s side. 

“Yuri! You’re back in town!” Suleiman’s hand slips further down, to close around the handle of Yuri’s luggage, but Yuri won’t let it go. Suleiman laughs it off, easy, “Beka says you can put your stuff in his room. I’ll let you in.” 

“Where’d he go?” Yuri shouts over the music. 

He gets a tattooed finger wagged in his face, “Patience, little fairy. I think you scared him.” 

Yuri frowns but lets him take his luggage and lead the way. “Beka’s not scared of me,” he pouts, but that makes Suleiman laugh more. Yuri remembers this now, from last time. Everyone in on a joke he never once understood. It made him feel young and furious. He follows Suleiman through the crowd, shoulders slumped, letting the dancers knock him around. Maybe Beka is scared of him after all. What does he need Yuri here in his face for--to remind him how his season’s over? He has this life to distract him. He is--Viktor called him, approving--a Renaissance man. Yuri is just a skater, and a child. 

Suddenly, he wants to cry. If Otabek doesn’t skate, what will keep them together? Then his eyes do well up, remembering the cold reception he’d received last time he came to Almaty. The kiss on the cheek. They were never together to begin with.

“Again?” Suleiman catches him wiping his tears with his thumb and shakes his head, he of the friendly scowl, turning to unlock the door to Otabek’s room in the warehouse’s far corner. It’s true--Yuri cried last time, too, alone on the couch. Suleiman had got him water and said, “There, there.” But it wasn’t much comfort--there was laughter in his eyes. And now, too. But it’s true that he’s always been kind. “If you’re gonna join our crew, you gotta get better at parties,” he says, now. But then pauses, thoughtful, with his hand on the doorknob. “Then again, all Beka does is hobble around on his crutches and mope about not seeing his  _ Yura _ ,” he pitches his voice low, to imitate him. “So maybe you two can be bummers together.”

“He does?” Yuri asks, cheeks pinking up. Then, embarrassed, he pinks up even worse. 

He’s shown inside without an answer, his luggage left by the door, which Suleiman closes behind him. The air inside is as cool as a sanctuary, though the thin walls do nothing to muffle the bass. Wide warehouse windows let in the night sky--planes criss-crossing over the city’s glow. The gold glittering velvet city out-sparkles the night sky all smeared with stars. When Yuri turns to face the room he catches his breath, the black tangled sheets, too, shine with glitter. He makes a hurt, little sound in the back of his throat that he feels rather than hears. It doesn’t seem to Yuri that Otabek has been moping. It seems more like a glamourous life filled with parties, with glittering boys in his bed, not a broken one of glittering glass in the gutter. He’s wasted his time, coming here. It was selfish. He only fooled himself thinking otherwise. And now Otabek’s seen him, with Suleiman--once again--in on the joke. 

He’s so wrapped up in angry embarrassment, nails digging into his palms, that he doesn’t react when the bedroom door opens again. 

Otabek says, “Yura.” 

Yuri flinches. 

“Kotik, what’s wrong?” 

Yuri hitches his shoulder up, hiding from him in his sweep of hair. He feels as if he might burst into flames.  _ Kotik.  _ That word means everything and nothing. It’s cruel of Otabek, to name him like this. He must have silly names for all the silly boys he knows, to make them feel special. 

Then Otabek laughs. He laughs, just like his friends laugh--like he knows something Yuri doesn’t. “Come here,” he says. 

“No.” Yuri won’t look at him. He’s sick of being the joke. 

“You came all this way for me, and now you won’t take another step. Is that it?” 

“That’s right.” His eyes find a picture of himself stuck on the lampshade by the bed. He looks away. 

“Well, who invited you?”

Yuri whines, loud enough to hear this time. He can’t help but look at him, now. He’s stripped down to a black shirt and warm-ups, balanced on crutches. He’s not scowling, though. His eyes are full of laughter. 

It makes Yuri furious. “Your snaps are so fucking depressing I thought--” 

“So are yours.” 

“I--what?”

“Your snaps depress me, too.”

Yuri shuts his gaping mouth and thinks of his snaps for Otabek, which are either taken in the mirror at the rink or else at home, half-dressed, pouting his lips. He’s always careful to look his absolute best. He spends hours on his hair. He huffs, “Then I won’t send you anymore, happy?” 

“It’s your eyes,” Otabek says. “Pleading with me to notice you, as if you’re not the only boy on Earth.” 

“As if you don’t fuck other boys and not me,” Yuri blurts. 

Otabek looks out the big windows at his city and sighs. “Is that what this is about?” He crutches closer. Yuri wishes he wouldn’t. He wants to stay angry, but it’s hard. Poor Otabek. The black cast from his calf to the tip of his toes is covered in day-glo signatures, so many they overlap into a tangled frenzy. All of his friends. Yuri finds his anger again and holds on tight. “I just want to forget you, Yura,” Otabek tells him, eyes steady and dark. The truth is always so easy for him, “It’s all that I want, now. If I can’t be beside you. If I can’t train in Russia. If I can’t be near you--if I have to watch you grow up without me, forget me, I want to forget you first--”

“That’s bullshit.” 

“I think you’ll forget me.” 

“Then I won’t compete.” 

“Yura--”

“I’ll stay here. I’ll live with you. You can teach me all of this--your life here, and we’ll be happy.” It’s what he came all this way to say. 

“No,” is the answer. 

“But why?”

“Lilia told me--at the banquet, she said, ‘You’ll ruin his skating.’”

“Fuck Lilia!” 

“Kotik--”

“This is my life!” 

“You’re meant to be more than a warehouse boy. This ride is downhill, there’s no glory in it.” 

“Otabek,” Yuri whines. He can’t help it. He’s tired. He wants what he wants. He walks into Otabek’s arms and hides his face against his chest. “Why are you being so fucking dramatic?”

“Why are you?” Otabek asks, but Yuri can feel his heart racing. When Otabek’s fingers card through his hair he thinks he might dissolve.  _ Touch me, more, and don’t stop. _ He thinks this thought as hard as he can, praying it. “Dance with me, Yura,” Otabek says, with finality, as if this is their only course forward, and then kisses the top of his head. 

Yuri takes an unsteady breath, “Okay.”

He takes Otabek’s crutches and leans them against the shaking wall. Otabek takes his hand and kisses it with a shallow bow, then tugs him closer. His right hand slips around Yuri’s waist, pushing his thin shirt up to squeeze his bare skin. His left hand guides Yuri’s palm over his jaw, then brings it to his mouth to kiss as well. Yuri can only watch, lips parted, growing hard already. Otabek’s the only figure in his fantasies. He wants him to teach him everything. Then Otabek bites his finger like he did once on the ice and Yuri laughs and cuffs his cheek. 

There’s something softer in Otabek’s eyes as they sway there, bass pounding through the walls like a storm. Yuri hums, sliding his hands from Otabek’s shoulders to his chest. He bites his lip and looks up into his eyes, “Just one time?”

“You won’t give up.” 

“I would never forget you--if you were my first,” Yuri says. “No matter what.” 

“You’d be surprised, kotik,” but there’s something there, in his face, that tells Yuri he’s almost through resisting. It’s there in the clench of his jaw, deep in his dark eyes, just before he rests his forehead against Yuri’s, pulling him closer. “It might destroy us.” 

“You told me you like broken things.”

“That was before I was broken myself.” 

Yuri hums, “Well, I like broken things, too.”

Otabek pulls back, “You do?”

“Yeah. I don’t throw something out, just ‘cause it stops working.” Then he smiles, “That’s why my room’s a mess. Maybe you forgot that, I’ve seen you skipping my snaps.”

“Little stalker.” Otabek smiles, just one corner of his mouth, twitching up, “You look too good, I told you. It hurts my feelings.” 

“You’re out for the season, Beka,” Yuri says, smiling now, too. “Not dead.” 

“You’re right, kotik,” Otabek kisses him, soft and quick, and it wipes the smile from Yuri’s face. “Show me how alive I am.” 

Yuri pushes forward to trap his lips, crossing his wrists behind Otabek’s neck. He bites his bottom lip and drags him forward, slowly, Otabek taking uneven steps with his cast, until Yuri falls backward onto the glittering sheets and Otabek follows. They never stop kissing. Yuri slides onto Otabek’s lap, hand twisted in his shirt. “Don’t worry, Beka,” Yuri teases him. “I won’t tell everyone how scared you were.” 

Tongues slipping over and under. Otabek’s calloused fingers slip under Yuri’s shirt to stroke his spine, Yuri’s thighs slip open wider on either side of Otabek’s lap, the world slips away until it’s only them, almost--

“Did you really fuck those other boys tonight?” Yuri asks between kisses. 

“What other boys?” Otabek sits up with Yuri in his lap to strip off his shirt. Yuri goes all to jelly, purring as he runs his hands over Otabek’s warm skin, leaning close to nuzzle against his jaw just like a cat, until Otabek growls at him and says, “Strip, kotik. Now.”

So Yuri strips for him, trying to see himself through Otabek’s eyes: the only boy in the world. He puts on a show, climbing off his lap long-limbed and languid, dragging his flimsy little shirt up his chest, pushing his fake leather leggings down his hips. Otabek’s eyes are so hungry, it makes him burn until he’s blind with lust. He turns and peels his leggings down--no panties like last time--then arches his back as he pulls his shirt over his head. He’s left in his thin body chain, and before he can turn, he’s tugged backwards by it, onto Otabek’s lap. 

“Beka--” Yuri starts, but Otabek doesn’t let him finish, brushing his hair from his neck to bite his skin. His other hand keeps Yuri in place, chain twisted in his fingers. 

“Shh, I want you to know how bad it’ll break me when you leave here.” 

Yuri can only close his eyes and moan. The scrape of Otabek’s jeans against his bare skin, the scrape of his teeth against his too-sensitive neck is so  _ good _ , he may come just from it. From the low rumble of Otabek’s words in his ear. 

“I’ve spent years watching you, angel. Why won’t you let me go?”

“No,” Yuri says. He grinds his hips down. “Fuck you,” chasing the warmth in his stomach as it grows. His eyes drop closed, mouth dropping open from the friction. 

Otabek bites him harder, jerking Yuri’s slim hips back, fist tight in the chain. “Little slut. I shouldn’t let you leave.” 

“ _ Yes _ , Beka.” 

“I should lock you up here, keep you for myself. Is that what you want?”

“Yes!”   


“Come for me, Yura,” Otabek says, wrapping his hand around Yuri’s cock. Yuri moans, slumping back against his chest and panting as he coats Otabek’s hand. 

“Silly brat,” words so hot against his ear. “Lay down on your back.” 

It doesn’t register, at first. Yuri’s boneless, warm against his chest. He scrapes his nails over Otabek’s hair, still purring from his orgasm. Otabek did this to him. He got something, at last. More than stolen kiss. Then Otabek pushes him down flat on his back with a growl. “Pay attention, angel,” Otabek says. “You’re mine, now. Remember? Let me hear that husky little kitten voice say ‘Yes, Beka.’”

“Yes, Beka,” Yuri flushes pink. He watches Otabek draw his leg up onto his shoulder, petting down his smooth skin with his fingers like a harp. 

“Good. Now say, ‘I’m a monster. I’m making you do this.’” 

Yuri whines, cock already twitching back to hardness. “I-I’m a monster. I’m making you do this.”

“‘I’m ruining your life,’” Otabek says looking not at Yuri but his delicate little bruised foot, then he kisses Yuri’s big toe, and then the high arch. 

“I’m ruining your life.” 

Otabek’s eyes flash down at him, amused. “See how it works both ways?” 

“I want you,” Yuri says. His bottom lip trembles as if he were a child, but Otabek pauses in his kissing of the inside of Yuri’s ankle, his slender calf, to repeat after him. 

“I want you.”

Yuri hooks his leg behind Otabek’s back, dragging him down. “I can’t live without you.”

“I can’t live without you.” 

“I love you,” Yuri says, hands slipping around Otabek’s necklace to drag him down for a kiss. 

“I love you, Yura,” Otabek says, bringing their lips together. Yuri moans into his mouth, hitching his hips higher to feel the rut of Otabek’s cock, still trapped in his warm ups, against him. Every moan, Otabek swallows up, greedy, one hand on Yuri’s ankle, the other under his lower back, trapping him. His tongue sweeps over Yuri’s and under, then Yuri bites down on his bottom lip and tugs, wanting more. 

“Take your pants off,” he says. “I want to suck your cock.”

Otabek starts to pull away, but Yuri keeps him trapped by his necklace, the same one he was wearing when they met. Otabek obliges, pushing his pants down from his awkward crouch above Yuri, letting him suck on his tongue. 

“Mm, little slut,” Otabek hums, as Yuri pushes him onto his back and takes a long look. “I doubt you even know how.” 

“Shut up,” Yuri says, brushing his hair behind his shoulder with a smile. “I’ve seen porn.” He leans down to nuzzle against it--the thick velvet soft head--before sticking his tongue out to taste.

“Fuck, Yura.” Otabek knocks his head back against the wall. The bass knocks back. 

Yuri can’t stop drooling, getting Beka’s cock so wet the spit drips down into his dark pubic hair. He can’t stop moaning in answer every time Otabek groans.    

He sweeps Yuri’s hair up into his hand, watching him bob his head. When he chokes, Otabek hisses and tells him, “Choke again, baby boy. Choke on it for me.” 

Yuri has to squeeze his eyes shut, then he’s coming again, throat squeezing Otabek’s cock with each whimper. 

“Kotik,” Otabek chides him gently, pulls him off his cock to push him back onto his back. Again, the arch of his foot is kissed, so sweetly, over a dark purple bruise. Yuri blinks back the tears from his eyes, the white mist of his orgasm. “Put on a show for me,” Otabek says, reaching over Yuri’s head and returning with lube. Yuri hums and trails his finger through the come on his stomach, dragging it up to rub his nipples, to tug on his own little chain as he watches Otabek through cracked eyes. Otabek watches him back, slicking up his fingers and his already wet cock. 

“Good kitten,” he says, dropping another kiss to his calf as his finger circles Yuri’s rim, teasing him. “Sexy little monster, don’t stop.” 

Yuri doesn’t stop, but he does cry out as Otabek pushes his finger inside him--so thick compared to his own, so big, hooking toward that sweet spot inside him that makes him purr, hands sinking into his own silky hair.

“Tight little angel,” Otabek bites his calf, rutting his slippery cock against the smooth inside of Yuri’s thigh. “Just as tight as I imagined your little cunt to be. You make me so proud.” 

Yuri’s dizzy, his world upside down as the second finger slides beside the first. “You im-imagined it?” he squeezes out--he loves it, he needs to know more,  _ more _ , all. 

But Otabek only asks, “Didn’t you?”

“Yes--all I want--your come filling me up--thought about--how big it would look--f-fucking my--” he’s bright red but he looks up into Otabek’s eyes, giving him his show, “Fucking my tiny cunt, Beka. Teaching it how to take a big cock--f-first time--” 

Three fingers in a hurry, Otabek biting his lip, growling at him. “Don’t, make me come already, little whore.”

“Don’t come,” Yuri agrees. “I want all of it. I want it dripping out of me. I want--”

“Filthy mouth,” Otabek scolds and covers it with his own, drinking up Yuri’s moans as he lines up the head of his cock. Yuri sucks his tongue as Otabek pushes in, until his eyes roll back and he forgets everything that’s not his Beka’s fat, slippery wet cock going in, in, in, taking Yuri with him until he feels inside out. 

“ _ Fuck _ , baby boy.”

“Nnf.”

“Look at me, kitten.” 

Yuri looks at him as his whole body stretches for the cock inside him. He can feel it in his stomach and in the squeeze of his heart. He’s never stretched this far. He arches his back, peering up at Otabek from between his wet lashes. He feels stretched over time--like that moment, years ago, one he doesn’t even remember, when Otabek first noticed his eyes. He feels stretched over distance--Almaty, St. Petersburg, the United States, Canada, Barcelona, Moscow. He feels stretched to his limit, Otabek’s cock pushing deeper and deeper, dark eyes so steady on Yuri’s red face. And it’s in Otabek’s eyes that Yuri at last realizes: there is no place or time apart from this one. No other moment. So there is no reason to worry what will happen next--whether this will end with a plane ride home, alone, or in the morning, together, naked in the sun-warmed sheets. All that they are--ever have been, ever will be--is together, right now: Otabek’s eyes on Yuri and Yuri’s on Otabek’s. Then Otabek presses deeper, and Yuri tilts his head back with a moan, breaking their gaze.   

  
  



End file.
